


the wren and his feathers

by Splat_Dragon



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: ??!Reader, F/M, Grooming, No Plot, Plotless, Wing Grooming, Wing Oil, Wingfic, Wings, Wren!Flaco, implied future relationship, preening, wing - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 06:35:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29414223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splat_Dragon/pseuds/Splat_Dragon
Summary: But he was a step above them - he was the boss, he couldn’t just plop down and spread out his wings, ask them to preen him. And none of them dared approach him and offer, either. So, though he never could reach some of his scapulars or secondary coverts, and coaxing free his crooked feathers was more ‘tugging’ considering he couldn’t twist to reach them right, he took care of his wings himself. Maybe they were a bit dusty, a bit too oily, the feathers a bit crooked, but it was the best he could do.
Relationships: Flaco Hernández/Reader
Kudos: 18





	the wren and his feathers

Flaco couldn’t remember the last time he’d had someone preen his wings.

His men preened each other’s wings, of course. They had no women to do it for them, no mates to curl up with and slowly untangle their feathers, coax free the feathers that had broken or come loose. And perhaps to the civilized folk it might have been odd - even illegal, in some places, for a man to preen a man he wasn’t related to’s wings - but they were no such thing as civilized.

But he was a step above them - he was the _boss,_ he couldn’t just plop down and spread out his wings, ask them to preen him. And none of them dared approach him and offer, either. So, though he never could reach some of his scapulars or secondary coverts, and coaxing free his crooked feathers was more ‘tugging’ considering he couldn’t twist to reach them right, he took care of his wings himself. Maybe they were a bit dusty, a bit too oily, the feathers a bit crooked, but it was the best he could do.

  
  


He caught you looking at them, sometimes. When he was digging around to get the money to pay you, and he always took great amusement in the way that you blushed underneath your chilled flush when he flared his wings just slightly, showing off his wren’s feathers. And, to his glee, it hadn’t escaped him that you always started to flare your wings in return before catching yourself, giving him an absolutely filthy look before turning on your heel and trotting back out to head down the mountain, nose in the air.

  
  


And then you catch him trying to straighten a feather. You’d passed his men in a group preening session, all huddled together and coaxing feathers and taking advantage of the warm (for the Grizzlies, at least) weather to pull off their gloves and rub the oils from the oil gland over their wings. He’d sent you out a few hours passed to ‘handle’ some bounty hunters that had been giving him and his gang some trouble, and hadn’t expected you back quite so soon. He looked at you, hand frozen with the feather half-way out, then flinches as it comes loose with a painful ‘snap!’

You raise the head of the lead bounty hunter as to say ‘job done!’ before dropping it and perking your own wings and waggling them, then gesturing towards his. “Eh?” his eyebrows raise in surprise - after all, preening is a _very_ intimate thing and he isn’t quite sure if you are quite there yet, but he’ll take what he can get - “If you’re sure, _pequeña ave_ ,” and stands to offer you his chair, sitting cross legged at the foot of it. You have to spread your legs to fit him - he’s _broad,_ after all, and after a moment you tug carefully on his rightmost wing to drape it over your lap; and then a moment, and you tug at his thick jacket, Flaco hesitating for a long moment (had you overstepped? you worry) before shrugging it off over his arms and wings and tossing it away, shivering in the cold.

Carefully, you run your hands over the bend of the wing in your lap, flexing it open and closed before leaving it open, his feathers spread across your lap. His feathers, you frown, are a _mess,_ filthy, oily but not in a good way. They’d be pretty, you think, when covered in their natural oils, nice and shiny and straightened out, and at that thought your own wings try to flare but you tamp down the urge, draping them over the back of the chair.

Hours of sitting in the chair haven’t done them any justice, either. The feathers are tangled, twisted and split and matted, some missing altogether, others dangling halfway out and needing to be removed.

You reach over, grabbing a stained rag he’s set aside for just such a purpose, and wipe it clean on your pants leg before beginning to carefully wipe his wing clean, swiping down on each feather gently, the wren shivering, his wing fluttering in your hand. “Soft,” you mutter, and he presses his wing down into your hand, leaning back against your leg, and you set the rag aside, intending on getting all the gnarls and mats and tangles out of his feathers.

And there are _so many,_ “Y’never tend your wings?” you grumble as you carefully coax free a snapped primary, Flaco bracing himself for pain only to sigh when it only tugs a little, like a gentle pinch, leaning back as you go to work untwisting a pair of tangled coverts, smoothing down the ruffled barbs with your thumb. You give his scapulars a wide berth as you go to work smoothing ruffled barbs and sticking-up feathers, humming something tunelessly under your breath as you fall into the instinctual rhythm — you hadn’t realized just how long it’s been since you’ve been able to groom someone, and his feathers feel so nice beneath your fingers. As his eyes go half-lidded with the pleasure your own do the same, the motions familiar, instinctive, as soothing as cleaning and oiling your gun at the end of a long day and before you know it there’s a pile of gently plucked feathers at your side and his feathers are perfectly neat as any ‘gentleman’s’, and all they need are—

—maybe later, that is a bit _too_ intimate. So you nudge him, and the older outlaw jolts awake with a snort, clumsily shoving his other wing in your lap and you do the same to it, wiping it clean before beginning to preen him again, the motions nearly hypnotizing as you fall into that trance, the man slumping back against you and allowing his eyes to drift shut, dozing but not falling asleep. His left wing is almost worse than his right - most of his primaries are rumpled, and getting the barbs back into place is no easy thing - but once they are, a few that are too bent to be saved coaxed into the pile, he looks like a striking bird, though his brown feathers look a bit dusty, if only he’d just let you…

“Flaco?” you ask quietly, tugging your gloves off your hands and setting them aside. And he stiffens - he knows what you’re asking - before finally taking a deep breath and arching his wings so you can access the glistening oil glands at the base of his wings, the man gasping and shuddering as you rub your hands over them, making sure your hands are soaked through before beginning to massage his wings, carefully rubbing each, individual, tiny little feather between your fingers, starting at the top and working your way to his larger feathers, making sure not to miss a single barb. It’s rhythmic, as soothing for you as it is for him, and you only blink back to awareness when his wing is gorgeous, glistening and a rich shade of tan, and he’s all out dozing, your legs asleep where he rests against them. He wakes, just barely, when you tell him to give you his other wing, then dozes off again after the sudden jolt when you soak your hands in the oil of his oil gland, basking in the massage.

You could preen him forever, it is so soothing, but it is so easy to overpreen that you have to force yourself to stop, to wipe your hands clean on the rag (though you’ll have to wash them proper soon unless you want to reek of him) and nudge him awake.

He yawns, and stretches out his wings, giving a satisfied groan, “Aaah, that feels good,” and you can imagine, your own wings itch and it has only been a few months since you’ve been preened, Flaco must have gone years and that sounds agonizing!

Slowly he stands, joints cracking back into place and you try not to grin, though your grin is quickly wiped off your face in your confusion as he turns to you and gestures to the floor, “Well? Sit!” and when you move to stand but not to sit he huffs, grabs you by your arm and guides you to sit with your back between his spread legs. “It’s your turn, _pajarita,_ it’s only fair.”

Any misgivings you might have, he quickly puts to rest.


End file.
